


the papers

by mmacy



Category: Madam Secretary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28499148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmacy/pseuds/mmacy
Summary: She was surprised the day they came, not that they came, but because they couldn't seem to come to an agreement, and because they came that afternoon, it must have meant that he caved.
Relationships: Elizabeth McCord/Blake Moran
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	the papers

**Author's Note:**

> LittleSweetCheeks said it was my turn, so here you go...
> 
> (My summary sucks, but... oh just read it)

The papers

~MS~

She arches her back, left hand finding its way behind her, fingers pushing against the knot that had been slowly forming just under her left shoulder blade— It was probably from the way she hunches over her desk, he always seemed to be reminding her to straighten up, then again that was coming from the man with perfect posture. Or maybe it was the one too many nights on the couch. She pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. It could certainly be attributed to the weeks of sitting in those uncomfortable short back chairs, head pounding from the verbal thrashing of two too many lawyers. She sighs, pulling her hand back into her lap before giving her shoulders a few rolls. It could probably be solved by a hot bath and some Epsom salt, maybe a massage, but she never did seem to find the time for those, even before her tenure as Secretary of State. Or maybe she could cut it off at its source, and say forget it, telling Miranda to tell David to tell him that he could have everything, everything from the art that hangs on the walls to the silver in the china cabinet. Her brow pinches. That did sound nice, drawing a veil over the past four weeks, well more like the last six months, but she wasn’t the one counting, he was, counting up the one hundred thousand dollars in alimony to be exact. 

She lifts her hand from her lap, wetting the pad of her thumb, and flicks to the last page of the latest packet that she was urged to read through and sign off on by two o’clock that afternoon. She grabs the pen she’d used not too long ago and scrawls her name just under the printed Elizabeth McCord that had already been etched onto the paper. She pulls the pen away, staring down at the quickly drying ink for a moment, and after deciding she was satisfied, snatches the packet up and drops it into the black bin at the corner of her desk, showing it was ready to be swept away and taken down to the third floor. 

She pulls the next project that calls for her immediate attention down from the pile that never seems to stop growing these days, and she tries to ignore the ever present ache in her right wrist, but it’s hard to do when it’s been bothering her for the last week— the amount of documents requiring her signature was uncanny, but she guessed that’s what you got mid-September in DC, the time of year when both young and old were scrambling to finish projects previously promised before the end of the fiscal year, before all the money ran dry. 

She hadn’t slept in two days, other than the two hour nap they stole on the much too small sofa around three in the morning— He’d ran out for bagels, her request, before the rest of the senior staff arrived. 

She leans forward, reaching for the mug of coffee that had to have gone cold by now, but before her fingers have the chance to even brush against the ceramic, a sharp twinge of pain radiates outwards from the spot that had been bothering her earlier. And just when she worries that her whole back may go up in a spasm, the doors that lead to the conference room slide open, and in he walks, smirk on his lips. Her face twists up in pain, but he couldn’t possibly have the chance to notice because he’s turned around, sliding the pocket doors shut, and he must push a bit too forcefully because they bounce back open a small fraction of the way.

He crosses the room over to her desk, and leans in close, left hand falling to her upper back as he waves a string and button manilla envelope, a thick one, in front of her face with his right. “That better not be another brief.”

He chuckles.

“Oh god it’s worse.” She says, cringing. She wracks her brain for something worse, and the first thing that comes to mind is— “Was ‘The World in 2040’ published?” 

He shakes his head as he works on undoing the band fastened around the button. “It was just messengered over.” He says. 

She raises a brow, and her eyes narrow just the slightest bit. 

“It’s the official papers.” He says.

Her lips part, and she straightens in her chair. “Really?” She asks, utter surprise dripping from that one word. 

He slips them out from the envelope and lays them out in front of her. “Think your wrist can handle one more signature?” 

She bites her lip, hiding the smile that’s fighting its way through. She turns to her desk, rolling her chair in just the slightest, and begins to flip through them, but she already knows the terms, spent weeks in a room debating them, arguing over the cars, the houses, who gets what restaurants, which areas in DC to wander… okay maybe not those last two, but she swore she remembered it being mentioned somewhere in there. But there was still one provision they couldn’t agree upon, hence her surprise receiving these today. She flicks through the settlement agreement, first finding the correct page, and then running her finger down the lines of black printed letters before she finds the clause— she lets out a sigh of relief before her lips sprout into a smile. 

“Good news then?” 

She searches the desktop for the pen she’d just been holding a minute ago, but he has it clutched in his palm. He hands it over, and she draws her signature across the line that had been flagged. She flips the page, initialing the two blank spaces in the middle before going to the next, and drawing her signature across the dotted line, and then— “Now that that’s that.” He says. 

She turns her head, giving him a smile as she pushes back her chair. He extends his hands, she gives him hers, and he pulls her up. “We can do this and not feel an ounce of guilt?” She teases. 

Blake pulls her close, hand falling to her cheek before it slips down, and his fingers take her chin and tilt her head upwards. He leans down, bringing their lips together. 

She pulls away, and her hands slightly push at his shoulders when she hears the soft padding of footsteps on carpet. Her head whips to the right, and the tension in her shoulders drops when she sees the young woman appear and disappear in the small slit created by the space of the open doors, unseen— it was merely a junior staffer, probably pulling a pamphlet from the out box that hangs just outside the frame of the door on the other side of the wall in the conference room. She lets out a breath before her gaze returns to his. “Okay maybe a little guilt.” She says. 

His eyebrows raise before he steps in close again, invading her space, invading her breathing air. “Would you feel less guilt in the bathroom?” 

There’s a spark in his tone, like the bit of pep he had to his step as he first walked into her office. She smiles, letting out this throaty laugh that he reminded her, far too often, instantly made his pants a bit uncomfortable. 

“I have a meeting at the White House.” She reminds. 

He cups the back of her neck before placing a series of feather light kisses up and down her jawline. He pulls back a fraction and— “We’ll be quick.” 

He nips at the skin of her neck, and she can’t help the breathy moan that escapes from the back of her throat. 

And now he’s slowly dragging her by the hand, inch by inch, across the room. 

His fingers are tangled in her hair and he has the first four buttons of her blouse undone, and they’re standing in the doorway between her office and the bathroom when the beeping of her personal line echoes through the space. 

“That’ll be Miranda.” She breathes as he pushes her skirt up, letting it bunch at her waist.

“Let it ring.” He says as he gives her that stare that always, without a doubt, makes her core flutter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still trying to find my footing with these two, so for now you probably won't be getting anything more than a drabble, until I play around with them for a bit... (but I do have a series of at least two rabbles in mind, and considering how quickly I wrote this one (about an hour) it may very well be written and published soon!) I hope you don't hate it. And LittleSweetCheeks, I hope this was a good surprise to wake up to.


End file.
